


North

by NotAllThoseWhoWander



Category: Merlin (TV), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/NotAllThoseWhoWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon carries Camelot's banner to the Northern Lands, in the hopes of restoring friendship between kingdoms. Merlin vows to stay by Arthur's side, if not for the prince's sake than for his own. Enter Thor and Loki Odinson heir(s) to the throne of Asgard; the fair prince and his sly, silver-tongued shadow of a brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I don't own Merlin, or Thor, or any associated characters.

Part One

 

He steps into the unsettling cool of Uther’s hall, feels the scald of two dozen eyes tracking his movements across the floor.   
“Merlin.” Arthur tilts his head, gaze fixed on the bow of his father’s shoulders. Attentive. “You’re very late.”  
“Gaius had me labeling bottles in the apothecary all morning. What’s happening here?”  
Arthur shakes his head; a quick, jerky motion just as Uthur stands and spreads his hands.  
“The Northern lands. Legendary in the histories and songs of our knights and warriors, of our brave forefathers. There have been battles wages there, and men have fought to honorable deaths—our own men, and theirs.”

 

Two knights standing to Merlin’s right pull back their shoulders and exchange glances. Uthur steps from his throne and moves across the cold flagstones.   
“Many savage tribes inhabit these unfriendly hills and bays—but there are good men, too—men of valor and strength. Armies like our own. Towns and villages. These citizens could be our friends and allies.”  
Doubt strums at the dead center of Merlin’s chest; he cannot trust Uthur. He wishes to very badly, but he cannot. Beside the throne, Morgana turns his way, slowly. She smiles.  
“With this in mind, I have decided to make peace and offer a hand of friendship to the people of the North. Camelot will send forth a party of men—the kingdom’s strongest and most honorable men—headed by my own son, and your prince.”

 

He sweeps a hand in Arthur’s direction. Merlin’s heart plummets violently. He sees Arthur smiling at the assembled crowd, lifting a hand, inclining his head as Uthur returns to the throne but all Merlin can think of is Arthur alone, in a cold and distant land, leading a rag-tag party of knights through unfriendly forests and frigid, snowy plains, chased, hunted by wolves and savage men.   
“Arthur,” He says, very quietly. “Arthur, did you agree to this?”  
“Yes, Merlin.” Arthur’s shoulders straighten; he carries himself with an infuriatingly unhurried air to stand beside his father, and Merlin is forced to listen as Uthur indicates the knights who will accompany Arthur, and goes on and on about supplies and boats and warhorses, and he can hardly stand it.

 

“I can’t believe it.” A warm hand on his shoulder and there is Gwen, hair pulled back behind a kerchief. Her sad gaze tracks Arthur’s movements, springy and so very princely, as he claps a hand on Uthur’s shoulder, grins down at Lancelot and Percival.   
“It’s ridiculous—sending a party off to the—Northern lands.” Merlin wants to bite his tongue, but he can’t staunch the uneasy flow of words. “Knights and banners won’t impress savage kings, Gwen.”  
“I know.” She puts a hand on his arm. Her palm is dry and warm. “I know, Merlin.”  
And then Arthur is striding towards them, his scarlet cape as lurid as his smile, and Gwen drifts into the background, and Merlin thinks that maybe she’s making herself scarce because she’s afraid.

*******

Walking beneath low timber beams in the shadow of the hall, Merlin grabs at Arthur’s arm.  
“Arthur, what is this about?”  
“A campaign to the Northern lands, Merlin. Were you not listening?”  
“I listened. I listened very hard, but I seem to have misunderstood. Surely Uthur wouldn’t send his own son to the North!”  
“Merlin.” Arthur halts suddenly, rakes an unsmiling gaze across Merlin’s face. “This is a chance to prove myself. To make Uthur proud—of myself, and of Camelot!”  
“It’s very unsafe.” Merlin swallows thickly and he doesn’t want to say it but he does, he says it quickly and shamefully. “Arthur, you’re—as your page and your friend, I worry about you. About all of Camelot’s men so far from home. I wish that I didn’t, but I do. I worry.”  
Something akin to a smirk plays across Arthur’s lips, and then he’s smiling broadly and slapping Merlin’s shoulder.  
“Well, worry no further, Merlin. You’re going to accompany myself and the knights.”  
Merlin chokes on a breath of frosty air. “Excu—what?”  
“You don’t think that I’d make it as far as the North without you, do you, Merlin?”  
And he swaggers away, the cape streaming behind him like a war-banner, and Merlin is left breathless with anxiety and fright and something that he thinks might be excitement.

 

“The North?” Gaius’s hand slips over a steaming cauldron. “You’re joking, Merlin!”  
“Afraid not.” Merlin pulls a wooden chair from workbench and straddles it backwards, pushing his hands against his face. “Our lion-hearted prince seems to take it as some kind of proving-grounds. A test set by Uthur. He wants to make his father proud.”  
“Understandable, of course.” Gaius says, softly. “A father’s pride. Difficult to win, particularly in Arthur’s case.”  
“It’s dangerous.”  
“Yes.”  
“Very dangerous.”  
“Merlin.” Gaius dumps a handful of rosemary into the pot, the sickly-sweet smell rising slowly. “Who are you worried for—yourself, or for Arthur?”  
“My—I—that’s hardly fair.” Merlin feels his throat tighten with the lie. “I worry for all of Camelot’s men. Myself included, I suppose—but this kingdom needs its prince more than an apprentice.”

 

Gaius is silent for a moment; a lingering moment, and Merlin wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. He knows that Gaius cares for him like family, and he for Gaius.  
“Men have gone to the North and returned, Merlin.”  
“I know.”  
“Uthur has.”  
“Has he?” Merlin looks up, slowly.  
“Yes. A long time ago—before your time, or Arthur’s. A band of soldiers went North, across the water. It must have been cold, because they went in the autumn. They brought no horses. They had to walk, Merlin, across many miles of unfriendly plains. They found a village and—” Gaius pauses for a moment too long.   
“They...?”  
“Plundered it.” Gaius presses his lips together. “Camelot’s feud with the Northern tribes is not without warrant or reason, my boy.”  
“Well, Uthur certainly neglected to mention that when he decided to ship Arthur and I off to the—the bloody North!”  
“Merlin!” Gaius, too, had neglected something—the cauldron, which was beginning to smoke violently.  
“I’m sorry,” Merlin said (he wasn’t), “I only worry for the safety of this kingdom’s knights.” (He was).  
Gaius stirred the cauldron frantically. The overpowering odor of rosemary drifted on smoky air.  
“Merlin, if you use your head, all will fall into place.” 

 

*******

“He went, you know.” Merlin wrapped his hands around the pump’s frigid handle and pulled at it. “Uthur. He lead a band of men into the North, and they plundered villages. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an angry horde waiting when we dock ship.”  
“Merlin!” Gwen adjusted her skirts nervously. “Merlin, keep your voice down.”  
“It’s unsafe. For myself, and for Arthur.”  
“Oh, Merlin.” Gwen stepped closer. “Merlin, you’ll be alright. You’re clever.”  
She stood on her toes and kissed his forehead, sweetly. Merlin felt something like fear stir in his chest.  
I may be clever—but am I brave?

 

Morning, early, mist threading through the castle spires. Merlin wakes and dresses in silence, takes his rucksack and shoulders it. Gaius is asleep, and Merlin does not want to wake him. He stands in the doorway of the dim apothecary and inhales. Woodsmoke, herbs, it smells like home.  
Steeling himself, he goes out into the morning.   
The kingdom sleeps; he makes his way through quiet streets to the castle’s gates. There, the crowd had assembled. If any of the party members had expected scores of well-wishers to see them off properly, they were sorely disappointed. There was no one; only the knights, Morgana, and Uthur.   
And Arthur. Of course Arthur, dressed in his red cape, tightening the cinch of a hard-breathing stallion’s saddle.  
“Merlin!” Arthur sees him, approaches, smiles.   
“Arthur.”  
Uther looks their way. Strides over with Morgana in his wake. She wears a fur-lined cloak, dark hair tumbling over full, pale breasts.   
“Hello, Merlin.”  
“Morgana.”  
Uthur speaks with Arthur in hushed tones. Merlin aches to hear what they talk of.  
“You seem nervous.”  
“I’m not.”  
“Fear not,” Morgana says, and she takes his hand. “You are in the company of brave men.”  
When she drifts away, Merlin feels sick. The company of brave men. The company. He is not brave. He is young and foolish and probably a liability. The thought makes him ill with unease. He thinks of Arthur, so afraid to disappoint Uthur, and of himself, so afraid to disappoint Arthur. 

*******

Blood on his hands. Shaking, Merlin thrusts the sword blindly, flailing against the unwashed bodies of men. Snow falls but he is not cold; only the immutable fear in his chest is real.   
Beside him, the prince falls. Arthur with blood seeping unstoppable into the snow, red cape and red chainmail and—  
Merlin jerks awake with a scream on his lips.  
“Arthur!”

Silence.  
He raises himself, sweating, finds himself alone in the hold of the dim ship. The smell of salt and smoke is unbearable; it is horribly dim down here. Men sleep and sit between stacks of supplies. Lanterns flicker and the ship pitches, wildly.   
“Merlin.” Lancelot appears, a looming shadow. “Are you alright?”  
“Fine.” Merlin straightens his tunic. His leather jacket feels thin and insufficient. “Where’s Arthur?”  
Lancelot and Percival exchange a dark glance.  
“Abovedecks,” Lancelot says, quietly, and they watch Merlin flee the hold. 

Up above it is cold—late evening—and Arthur stands on the slick deck. Merlin dislikes the feel of salt spray on his face and stinging his eyes, but he blinks it away and goes to stand beside his prince.  
“It’s very cold.”  
“I like it.” Arthur smiles hardily. Merlin fights the urge to roll his eyes; Arthur’s casual attitude is infuriating—of course Merlin is accustomed to the prince swaggering around the castle, the village, Camelot’s wooded hills...but here? With the rolling sea spread like a dark blanket as far as the eye can see, with waves dashing themselves against the edge of the ship? Wooden beams creak, a low, mournful sound. Merlin does not wish to appear impudent. He thinks of Morgana’s words—the company of brave men—and he nods and puts his hands into his pockets and says,  
“You’re right, Arthur. I like it, too.” 

*******

They sail for many days and many nights, through seas that pitch and sway like men turning in their sleep. Some of the knights, unused to seafaring ways, become sick and huddle, day and night, in the ship’s dim hold. It is a very small ship, and crowded and dark. Arthur sleeps alongside his men, on the damp floors.   
Sometimes they drink together, or tell stories, and when the lanterns flicker and die so do their voices. And sometimes in the darkness Merlin feels the fringes of fright creep in, and he aches for a hand to hold in the damp blackness, but he always feels Arthur’s warm shape nearby, and sometimes the ship’s motion pushes them closer together and that is when he can breathe easily and turn to see the prince’s silhouette and maybe, maybe he feels safe.   
*******

“So, Merlin.” Lancelot stares over the top of his ale mug, not unkindly. “You and the prince.”  
“Me and...?”  
“And Arthur.” Lancelot glances towards Percival, who joins them in the corner of the hold. He drinks from an overflowing mug. “You seem...to be on good terms.”  
“Well, I would hope so.” Merlin can smell the reek of beer. Their gazes are not cruel but curious. “Why do you ask?”  
“No reason.” Percival says, but Lancelot breaks in.  
“The prince doesn’t seem to be overly-fond of many people. I was just...commenting on your—bond.”  
“I’m Arthur’s servant,” Merlin says, quietly.  
“And his friend.”  
“And...” Merlin stares across the hold. Arthur is talking with the salty captain, bent over a series of maps. “Yes. And his friend.” 

 

*******

Merlin is rolling up his bedroll when he hears it—the scream, loud and hoarse.  
“Land!”  
There is a sort of dignified scramble for the deck; they climb out into a pearl-misty morning, very cold and gray, and there it is. Land.  
A bleak stretch of gray shoreline; low waves curl against rocky beaches. Distant hills. Everything is draped in mist.   
“The North,” Someone breathes.  
“We’ve made it,” Gwaine mutters. There is general awe, reserved because no one wants to appear stupidly excited, as they haul a wooden longboat over the side of the ship. Supplies are dropped in. Merlin straps his knapsack and sleeping roll to his back and when Arthur climbs a thin rope ladder to the longboat, it is Merlin following suit, trying hard not to look at the flat gray water. It’s dark, and Merlin fears, maybe irrationally, that there’s something lurking beneath the waves.   
The longboat pitches them towards the shore, and Merlin stands shivering while the longboat is rowed back to the ship, and the rest of the supplies are loaded and the knights climb on and the boat returns to the shoreline. There is hardly any wind, but the sky is low with dark clouds.   
Arthur seems agitated. He paces on the shoreline with a map in his hands, leather boots cracking over the rocks.  
“Are you...surveying?” Merlin feels stupid because maps and exploring are definitely not his strong suit, and he doesn’t really know what Arthur is doing. “The map’s much help?”  
“Fine.” Arthur says, shortly, but as he folds the map up Merlin sees that it’s only a partial sketch of a shoreline, something drawn most likely from memory.

 

They pack the supplies, with the knights carrying most and Merlin burdened down, too, and Arthur carrying nothing but his pack and his sword.  
And then they are walking. Merlin worries when they climb a series of low hills and the bay falls behind them. It is difficult to see in this mist; what if they get lost? He forces himself not to think of it—and there’s much else to think about. The ground is solid and dry until they climb down into a valley, and then everything is soggy and marshy.   
“This sure isn’t bloody Camelot,” Percival gripes quietly, when Arthur is looking ahead and cannot hear them. They walk for a good part of the day, without stopping. Merlin’s feet ache but he will not complain. Arthur leads them across marshland and into a tangle of woods. The trees are low and scrubby, and the air no longer smells of salt.

 

“We’ve left the ocean far behind,” Lancelot says as they drop their packs.  
“We’ll camp here for the night,” Arthur announces, loudly. Sounds of consent rise from the men. Merlin spreads his bedroll some distance from Arthur’s; although he has been furnished with a small sword for the purpose of self-defense, he has to admit that he feels safer beside someone who has been trained extensively in the art of fighting.  
Gwaine builds a campfire with the help of a Sir Galad, and the preparing of a meal begins. It’s fairly obvious that no one is any great shakes at cooking, but they make do with a cauldron and some broth that turns out greasy, and there’s no meat to speak of.   
“I’ll go slay a deer,” Gwaine offers, standing, but Arthur cuts him off.  
“No—not tonight. Stay close. I don’t want anyone wandering off. Not in this darkness.”

 

Mist winds around the trees as they cook and then open packets of bread. No one is talkative; an air of tension lingers. The fire begins to fade into warm coals.  
“I’ll go get firewood,” Merlin makes to stand.  
“I’ll go.” Arthur is already on his feet. “You stay here.”  
“I think—”  
“And I think that everyone is going to stay put—and that’s what’s going to happen.” Arthur snaps, turning on his heels and moving swiftly away through the scrubby woodland.   
Silence.  
Lancelot jabs at the coals with a stick.  
“Funny,” Percival mumbles, although there is nothing humorous about the situation and won’t be, Merlin guesses, for some time.   
“What’s funny?” Sir Keely, a very young knight with scruffy dark hair, speaks from across the campfire.   
“Nothing,” Percival returns, darkly. “Prince Arthur seems—easily distracted—by the idea of earning his father’s pride. Maybe enough to turn him from the right path.” A moment of silence, and he adds, “I meant no insult to the prince. He is young.”  
“You are all young.” Galad, who Merlin estimates to be in his mid-thirties, folds his jacketed arms. “When our King made this same journey, many, many years ago, there was much fanfare. Like us, he used no horses—but there were animals commandeered from pillaged villages, and tents to sleep in at night, and a great deal more men. Even so, they were foolish and outnumbered. The people of the North are not to be underestimated. They are dangerous. Some might say feral. Tribes in the mountains, I’ve heard, will come down into these valleys to hunt. Uthur lost many men in this way, and in others. It was unwise to return.”  
His words are met with stony silence, the silence that sits between men like great boulders. Merlin feels warm shock, something close to offense—but he does not trust Uthur, and any fool would notice Arthur’s desperation to please the man...

 

“What are you talking about?” The prince’s voice, low and nearby.  
“Nothing, Prince.” Galad says, polite if not withdrawn, and Arthur drops an armful of branches beside the fire. He builds it back up, and they sit in chill silence for some minutes more. Merlin finds his gaze drawn to Arthur’s face—the fair, hardy face of Camelot, of the heir to the throne of the kingdom...but there is something hooded in Arthur’s eyes.  
He sleeps uneasily that night, knowing that beneath the still surface, tension boils unchecked. 

*******

Morning, cold and gray, and the resume walking. The woodland drags on for miles and miles—low, rolling hills, stark but beautiful, and Merlin wonders if it is not some kind of autumn in this place. Was it not spring in Camelot? Did flowers not bloom here?   
The knights seem restless, agitated, and whenever they take a break from the trek Galad and Percival break away to talk with one another. Merlin wishes to be out of this, to be home.   
Morning drifts into afternoon, and they are hiking up a steep rise, and then, suddenly—

The mist falls away like a curtain, and they are suddenly walking through striking woodland, and the sun is shining. There is moss on the ground, birdsong in the trees. In the safety of daylight, Arthur allows Gwaine to take down a deer. They make camp in a dip on the hillside and cook meat.

Spirits improve. The night air is warmer, and the men do not shiver. Lancelot leads them in a rousing rendition of “The Maiden and the Pub-Keep”, a raunchy drinking song, and although there is no ale they are all smiling by the song’s end.  
“I’ve got a joke, if anyone should like to hear it,” Keely says.  
“I don’t know,” Galad replies, doubtfully, “Is it clean enough for a prince’s ears?”  
Everyone laughs at this, even Arthur. Merlin falls asleep with hope light in his chest.  
*******

He wakes violently in the middle of the night. Something like a sweet voice—a woman’s voice—drifts between the languid pines.  
Merlin pushes back his thin blanket and pulls on his boots. He takes his sword, for precaution. Body almost unwilling, he creeps away from the other men—what if they should wake, and find him sneaking away?   
You could always say you’re going to take a leak, he reminds himself, and within moments he’s made it many yards away. The ground is soft, springy with moss, and he sees the silver light through the trees and then he’s out into a clearing and he nearly stumbles.   
She walks as if her feet touch only the air itself—drifting like a dream, like a sprite—and her hair cascades across slender shoulders, the rise of full breasts. She wears a dress and robe, but her hood has been pushed down and her eyes find his.  
Merlin.  
He freezes.   
Merlin.  
She comes closer. Her eyes are startlingly green.  
You have come from Camelot.  
He raises the sword.  
“Who are you?”   
Will not allow his voice to shake.   
Who am I? I am many women, and men, and things that are neither man nor woman, or are both.  
Merlin’s heart thuds wildly. She extends a shimmering hand, pale fingers thin, shining with rings, and Merlin is reaching for her, reaching...  
What happens next he does not remember. He recalls only a voice, low and lilting—a woman’s voice, or a man’s?—You come close to our borders. Turn back, son of Camelot. Turn back or else proceed.  
He remembers protesting—he is not the son of Camelot, that is Arthur, it is not him, she is mistaken—but wakes on his sleeping roll with his boots on and his sword unsheathed by his side. 

“Did you business to attend to in the night, Merlin?” Percival jokes when they wake and begin to repack. “Leading an army into battle, perhaps?”  
“No.” Merlin briefly considers telling them of the strange woman, but decides against it. “No, I must have drawn my weapon in my sleep.”  
This brings laughter from the knights and a smirk from Arthur. They set off through verdant pine forests once more, pushed onwards by the promise of meat again tonight.   
Merlin is lost in thought, unable to stop recalling the silver woman, and when he hears the music he stops dead in his tracks.  
“Do you hear that?”  
“Hear what?” The others idle, staring at him.  
“Music—flutes. I think. It’s...distant.” Merlin registers their blank looks. “Earwax, maybe?” He suggests, stupidly, and the others press on. Only Arthur hangs back. He looks concerned.  
“Merlin.”  
“Eh?”  
“Is everything...are you...alright?” It obviously takes something out of Arthur to ask—to admit to himself that someone might be faring poorly on this journey. “Holding up okay?”  
“Just fine,” Merlin says.  
“But you...the music...?”  
“Nothing. Probably a bird.”  
“Nothing.” Arthur looks momentarily doubtful, and Merlin wonders what the prince thinks of. 

“This forest is old,” Gwaine says when they stop to eat. The bread is quickly becoming stale, but the meat is unspoiled. “These trees have grown for many of our lifetimes.”  
This idea makes Merlin sad in a way that he cannot explain.   
“We’ll need firewood for tonight,” Keely comments idly, sitting on his leather knapsack. “I don’t see many sticks on the ground—we’ll have to cut down a sapling.”  
And as if in response, Merlin hears her—her voice, high and clear and laughing.  
I warned you away, Merlin. I warned you!  
And she laughs gaily, like a girl planning a clever trick.

Merlin stands suddenly, hand going to his sword. Unsettled silence falls as the men turn to watch him.  
“What the hell are you doing, Merlin?” Arthur asks, loudly, sternly.  
Merlin’s cheeks flush. “Nothing.”  
He sits. Should he tell them? Should he keep silent? Are they in danger? He imagines Arthur, son of Camelot, standing alone in the woods, bodies around him...  
“Last night, I dreamed of a strange woman.”  
Percival and Lancelot exchange smirking glances.  
“I think we’ve all had a dream or two like that, laddie.” Galad scrapes mud from his boots with a stick.  
“It wasn’t like that!” Merlin protests. “She came through the woods, floating, like a sprite—and she spoke to me. Her voice was very sweet, but I drew my sword anyways.”  
“I’m sure he drew his sword,” Keely laughs. “I always find it best, don’t you boys?”  
“I tend to polish it—keep it nice and sharp,” Percival says, almost sheepishly, knowing that Arthur will likely not protest, because they are men, and far from home.  
“You don’t understand,” Merlin tells them. “She was warning me.”  
“I’m sure she was,” Galad returns patiently. Arthur looks greatly concerned; he stares at Merlin, eyes dark, until Merlin assured them that it was nothing, nothing, he’s certain, even though he is privately very worried and a little frightened. Lancelot looks at Arthur, as if hesitant to make such unclean comment in front of their prince. 

“I, too, sense something strange in these woods,” Lancelot says.  
“Nonsense!” Galad tosses his stick aside. “We are far from Camelot—everything feels strange.”  
“I’m sure that it’s not anything of import,” Lancelot says. “At least, nothing we cannot fight off with sword and arrow.”  
“That’s the spirit!” Galad says, and Keely cheers. They begin to pack up.  
“Anyways, we seem to have gotten out of that awful cold—the way looks easy from here on out—” Keely begins, but he is cut off suddenly and violently, crying out, and then he is pitching backwards.

“Keely!” Arthur cries, and the knights break from their positions, swords drawn at once, and Merlin realizes with a jolt of undiluted terror that the trees around them are reaching, striking, stabbing.

“Fight!” Arthur shouts. “Fight them!” Keely is on his hands and knees, bleeding badly, and he is reaching for his sword, and—  
“Merlin!” Arthur screams, and Merlin fumbles his sword from the sheath. Lancelot and Gwaine whirl madly, swords flashing, and Arthur is by Merlin’s side, and Merlin tells himself, through his spinning chaos, that he has to be brave, stand his ground, and he cuts wildly at the stabbing branches, and the creak and snap of wood echo like cries.

Magic, he thinks. This is magic. There is little time to think otherwise, and Merlin is concentrating, concentrating hard, and he feels his own magic surge and flash within him, and in the next moment all is still.   
“It’s stopped!” Percival cries, and they rush to Keely’s side. The young knight hunches, bleeding through his chain mail.  
“It’s cut through the mail,” Galad kneels. “It’s cut him badly, Prince Arthur.”  
Arthur’s face goes ashen. “Get him up. Take only the supplies you can carry—leave everything else.”  
And they do.

They hasten through darkening forest, with Keely inching along between Lancelot and Galad. The young man is listless, seems to be close to death. Merlin feels sick; some dark magic had overpowered them. Someone else’s magic.   
The silver woman. There is no other explanation; Merlin knows this.  
I should have said something, I should have said something to Arthur, I should have...

This is my fault. He’s bleeding so badly—Keely is going to die, and I...I could use—I could. Do it. I could. Would they notice? It’s dark out. Would they? They would. Let him die, or reveal...oh, heavens. No. Stop, Merlin—you’ve got to choose, dammit, you have to—  
“Merlin?” Arthur sits down beside Merlin. They’ve built a campfire in a dark place where no trees grow. Keely lays panting beside Galad. Gwaine stirs broth with stiff movements. “Are you alright?”  
“No,” Merlin mutters. “Arthur, I could have stopped this.”  
“How?” Arthur’s face twists with confusion, something that might be guilt. “Wind storm, I’d reckon. We were lucky to escape with our lives.”  
“You don’t think that there might be...something more?” Merlin hesitates to ask, but he cannot stop himself.   
“What are you talking about?” Arthur’s eyes turn down and away.  
Merlin feels sick. “It’s nothing.”  
Arthur stands. He looks towards Keely. He says, “Good.”  
*******

Keely coughs all night; rasping coughs wet with blood. Merlin does not sleep. None of them do, and in the misty morning they pack the scant supplies and push forth without eating. The sun rises well before noon, illuminating haggard faces. Keely can barely stand and so they drag him, trying to be gentle, apologizing when the going gets rough.

“No far, Keely,” Gwaine says. “Not far.”  
“Good,” Keely moans, and although he’s trying to look tough Merlin can see the knight’s facade breaking down. Arthur marches on ahead, scouting, and Merlin jogs to join him,

He doubts that he’ll be able to talk any sense into the prince but he can’t lag behind and watch Keely die.   
“Arthur,” He begins, haltingly, and then falls silent.   
Arthur stops.  
He hears it, too.

“What...?” Merlin breathes, and the men behind them come to an uneasy stop and the voices grow louder, and then the two figures come over the top of a low forested hill, and Arthur’s hand goes to his sword.  
“Name yourselves!” He cries, and they are all fumbling for their swords.

“Do not draw your weapons.” The first figure strides in their direction, through falling sunlight and shadow, and Merlin thinks at once that he looks like a king—tall, a mane of fair, if crownless, hair; he wears no armor but a leather vest, a cape of brilliant red. Silver clasps glint in the light.  
“Name yourselves!” Arthur calls. His hand does not move from his sword’s studded hilt.

“Did you hear that, brother? Name yourselves, he says.”  
“And should we?” A darker figure, thinner and shorter, like a shadow, moving swiftly behind his companion. “I should have thought that my dear friends would be the end of them.”  
“Brother—you haven’t set your trees on these poor men, have you?”  
Merlin swallows with some difficulty, able only to watch in fear and fascination as the men draw closer.

“Look,” The dark one smiles, sadly. “They are mortal. One of their knights is dying.”  
“Name yourselves.” Arthur speaks again, voice high and clear. “Name yourselves and your king, or feel the wrath of Camelot.”  
Merlin nearly cringes; how foolish Arthur sounds, how stupidly vain!  
“The wrath of Camelot.” Smirking. The dark one, he wears green and black and silver; the color of things that fear the light and revel in darkness. “I think that we should fear such wrath, don’t you?”  
“No. No, I do not.” The blond-haired one moves like a cat, readying the strike. He is tall and strong. But Merlin sees something light in his blue eyes. “One is hurt. We will bring them to the palace.”  
“The...the palace.” Distrust lingers in Arthur’s eyes. “And whose palace would this be?”

“The palace of Odin, All-Father.”  
“And—” Arthur’s face is going pale but he keeps speaking. “And who would that make you?”  
They exchange glances, smirks, the brothers.  
“That would make me Loki.”  
“And I, Thor Odinson.” Eyes bright but cold, surveying them like prey, like wounded animals. “Firstborn son of Odin, and heir to the throne of Asgard.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not as it seems within the walls of Kaldhùs...as Merlin becomes suspicious of the brother princes, tensions arise between the knights of Camelot.

Part Two

“Merlin.” Loki tilts his head, allowing a cold, confused smile to linger. “Is that a family name?”  
“I—I don’t think so.” Merlin returns, politely. Loki and Thor have led them some distance through the woods, and they now break out of the shadows, and Merlin’s jaw all but drops as he inhales the view.

Low green hills, vibrant, rich with color—a dark river winding up into high, cold mountains. In the river valley they see the palace—a hulking thing, surrounded by timber walls.  
“Is this the kingdom of Asgard?” Arthur addresses Thor.  
Both brothers laugh uproariously at this.  
“No, Arthur Pendragon, it is not. Our home is...some distance away. All-Father visits these realms often. Loki and I accompany him.”

“Oh.” Merlin revels in the clean, cool air—the gilded sunlight, the stark beauty of this strange land.  
“Here!” Thor indicates a place some yards downhill, where two black horses are ground-tied and grazing. He whistles a high, sharp note and the sleek animals toss their heads up and canter to meet them. “I will take your wounded man to the palace, Arthur Pendragon. Will you ride behind him, so that he stays in the saddle?” 

“Yes.” Arthur nods briskly, and Merlin sees something of Uther in him. “Allow me to speak with my men, first.”  
He draws them aside and talks fervently.  
“Merlin, you can’t let anything happen—I don’t trust them. These...men. Something about this isn’t right.”  
“Agreed.” Galad says. “Strange men—savages, I’ll reckon.”

“We go with them. Without the help of a healer, Sir Keely is dead. We do this for him—for our brother in arms.”  
A chorus of agreement. Arthur leaves them, swings easily into the saddle of a handsome dark horse. He gathers up the reins as Thor mounts, sliding a heavy leather boot into the stirrup. They turn the horses northwest and gallop; Keely is a limp figure in front of Arthur, his hands hanging at his sides. 

“Come,” Loki says, striding after the horses. His cape streams with every smooth movement, like a war-banner. Then, “Your knight will survive his wounds. The palace at Kaldrhús is home to many accomplished healers.”  
“Is it?” Percival matches strides with Loki—Loki, the name feeling strange and heavy in Merlin’s mouth—and his hand creeps close to the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Strange, to have built a palace in such a...remote...area.”  
“Do your people not enjoy occasional seclusion?” Loki’s pale, thin face tilts towards the sunlight. He smiles. Merlin thinks that he cannot be older than twenty-two years of age, maybe twenty-three. And Thor—Thor’s face, too, was unmarred by age or scars.

Percival falls silent, and it is Galad who speaks.  
“What was your business in the woods? Do you hunt?”  
Loki’s mouth twists into a half-smile. “Something along those lines, Sir Galad.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Galad mutters darkly, but he too allows silence to overtake them.  
Merlin walks behind Loki, feeling sick. The immovable truth glares, stares him down—the use of magic, of magic, and that Loki: Loki, the strange dark prince, had admitted to wounding Keely, to casting some—enchantment. Arthur will discover the truth, Merlin’s certain of that. 

*******

“Kaldrhús,” Loki announces, sweeping an arm towards the sprawling palace as they approach. Hemmed in by walls of stone and wood, the buildings looming dark timber.   
Men dresses in leather armor bow to Loki, incline their heads in the knights’ direction. The dark prince shows them through a hulking gate. Merlin sticks by Sir Galad’s side, not eager to wander off. There are many buildings—great halls and small homes whose roofs are thatched—dark timber beams and steeply slanted roofs. 

The palace itself is hewn from stone—river stone, Loki informs them, almost proudly, as if he had had a hand in building it.   
“You will sleep in our chambers, tonight, and feast this evening in the king’s hall.”  
“We will, will we?” Galad folds his arms, but Lancelot breaks in, smoothly.  
“Prince Loki, if our Arthur Pendragon allows it, we will be grateful for your hospitality.”  
“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Loki smiles vaguely. They are led across a stone terrace, and a fair-haired girl comes forth from the hall’s shadows. She wears a green dress, a brown cloak with thick leather clasps. Her legs are bare beneath the dress, but wiry and strong. 

She bows to Loki.  
“Hail, Son of Odin.” She glances sideways at the assembled knights and Merlin. “These are Pendragon’s men?”  
“Yes.”  
“Will they stay tonight?”  
“I should think so. Would you show them to the quarters of the king’s guests, or should I call upon another?”  
The girl’s blue eyes rake across their wearied figures. Her face is pale and freckled, but hardy. She is young—Merlin guesses fifteen, maybe sixteen. 

 

“I am not busy. As you wish, my lord.”   
“Thank you.” Loki sweeps away down a flagstone hall, the heels of his boots loud and sharp.  
“My lords,” The girl bends at the waist, bowing low to them. “Please.”  
As she leads them into the palace’s dim, cool heart, Galad asks her name.  
“My name is Inga.”  
“A beautiful name,” Lancelot says, politely.   
“A common name, here.”  
“And have you been a servant long?” Galad asks.  
Inga turns to stare at him, her eyes wide and clear, a cool smile twisting her mouth.  
“I am no servant, knight of Camelot. I am a shieldmaiden of the House of Kaldrhús.”  
“A shieldmaiden.” Galad’s eyebrows arch. The other knights exchange dark, curious stares.  
“You look surprised.”   
“In our kingdom, maidens do not bear shields, nor arms.”  
Quiet murmurs of agreement from the knights, but Merlin catches Lancelot’s distant smile.   
“Well,” Inga allows them a chilly smile, “Your kingdom could learn from ours.” 

*******

“Ridiculous,” Galad strips off his dirty tunic, revealing greasy chainmail. “A savage country where maidens bear arms—as if they were men!”  
They have been shown to dim but spacious quarters in the palace’s heart; a series of long, low rooms with dark ceilings, furnished with wooden beds and chests.  
“Perhaps there is something to be admired in that—in bravery,” Lancelot suggests, removing his mail.   
“Nonsense!” Galad cries. “Has your time in the wild clouded your judgement, Lancelot? Do you think, honestly, that the fairer sex should fight—should die—on the battlefields alongside us?”  
Lancelot looks down. Merlin knows who he thinks of—of Gwen, of Morgana, of Camelot’s youthful maidens. Girls in their dresses and gowns, hair falling long over their shoulders, skin untouched by wound or scar.   
“You are right, Galad,” Lancelot says. “A maiden has no place among warriors.”

They undress in silence. Merlin worries silently, worries for Arthur. They have not seen him for many hours, and beyond the glassless windows darkness encroaches.   
He is beginning to despair when the door is thrown open.  
“Arthur!” Galad strides across the floor, his movements jerky.   
“Men.” Arthur stares around at them. He looks wan, Merlin thinks. “Sir Keely is being attended to by healers.”  
“And what of Keely’s condition?”  
“Prince Thor assures me that Kaldrhús’ healers are well-practiced.”  
“They are savages!” Galad says fervently. “How can we be sure that they do not use sorcery?”  
Arthur’s eyes flash and darkne. “I will hear no more about sorcery—and nothing from you, Galad, tonight! Keep your heads, men. Without the hospitality of our hosts, we would be dead.” He pauses, breathing hard. “At any rate, I have come for Merlin. Gather your things. You will stay with me.”

Merlin collects his scant belongings—a worn cloak, spare boots, his sword—and follows Arthur out into the hall. He feels the stares of the knights on his back, hot with judgement.   
“Arthur,” He says, quietly. A dark-featured servant girl passes, her arms laden with cloth. Torches burn bright in iron brackets. “Why am I going to stay with you?”  
“Merlin.” Arthur slaps Merlin’s shoulder, and suddenly Merlin feels a thousand leagues away, back home in Camelot, as if they had never left. “Merlin, you’re my servant. And my friend.”  
“Right.” Merlin’s gladness does not quite quell the creeping sense of unease.  
“Besides,” Arthur adds, smirking, “After seeing your handiwork with a sword, I doubt that the knights’ll have much use for you.”

Arthur’s quarters are much more spacious, and Merlin’s adjoining room is dim and smoky, but it’s warm and there is a bed and two wooden chests, and a rug on the floor. The paneless window overlooks a stone terrace and dirt courtyard. 

A group of small boys race past, bearing wooden shields and blunted wooden swords; the tools of practice. In their tunics and leggings, with unshorn hair, they look painfully carefree.  
Merlin wonders if they will grow up to see battle, or if they will be lucky enough to live in a time of peace.

“They are like lambs, are they not?”  
Merlin starts at the sound of the voice, turns, ready to defend himself.  
“Loki. Ah, Prince Loki...?”  
“There is no need. In this...realm...I am more than a prince, less than a king.” Loki crosses swiftly to the window. He watches the children dart and wheel, slashing their wooden swords through the cool evening air. “Like lambs,” He repeats.   
“I suppose so.”  
“They grow up in a time of peace, of plenty. They will reach manhood knowing no battle. And there will come a shadow of war. And the lambs will be sacrificed.”  
Fingers of unease skitter down Merlin’s spine. Unable to stop himself, he turns to Loki.  
“I know what you are—what you are capable of.”  
“Oh?”  
“In the woods.” Merlin steels himself. “The trees—you admitted—I know that it was you. Your use of sorcery was not cunning, nor was it brave.”  
He waits for retribution, for the prince to strike him, slap him with a spell or curse.  
Instead, Loki laughs, brightly and gaily.   
“Yes,” He says. “Yes, that was my handiwork. The trees. My brother and I visited this realm often as children—under our father’s eye, before we were allowed to roam freely—and we would flee into the woods, the two of us. It was another king’s land, then. King Biorn the Third, I think. It was his land, but on those days we ruled it, Thor and I.”  
“Thor. Thor and Loki.”  
“They must sound strange to you. Our names.”  
“A lot of things about your land are strange to me.”  
“And it should be.” Loki folds his arms. He is much taller than Merlin. His dark hair is long, reaching straight shoulders. “You are a lowly manservant. You are no prince. You have not seen the world.” 

This is true, undeniably, so, but Merlin bristles nonetheless.   
“Few men are born princes, my lord.”  
Loki stares at him for a long, level moment. His eyes are green, the brilliant green of a snake’s scales.   
“Forgive me,” he says. “I was harsh. It was unkind to suggest that your station of birth should determine your fate.”

“No, it’s fine.” Merlin turns away. Night is falling very swiftly. “I should unpack.”  
“Of course.” Loki moves to the doorway, lingers for a moment before disappearing. Merlin is done unpacking, of course, lied only for a moment of solitude. 

There is a wooden basin full of cold water, and Merlin washes his face and hands, leaves them red but feeling alive. There is silence from Arthur’s side of the door, and silence in Merlin’s, until someone raps hard.   
“Yes?”  
The door opens. A pale girl, dark-haired, watches him sternly.   
“Your presence is requested at the feast tonight, held in honor of our king’s guests.”  
“You mean us?”  
“King Ulfr wishes to honor his guests, and you are one of them.”   
She must be ten or eleven years old, with wide dark eyes.   
“I’ll...come...I—give me a moment.” Merlin moves to pull on his cloak, but the girl shakes her head.  
“I have been told to give you this.”  
She extends towards him a heavy cloak, trimmed with dark fur. The clasps are glinting silver, like knives or swords, and many strange runes are etched into the metal.

He pulls it over his shoulders. It is heavy. The fur smells like smoke.  
“Come,” she says.  
He follows her out into the hall; the air is cold and still. They go down a series of dim, twisting hallways, and then Merlin hears strange music—a lute, he thinks—and they are in the king’s Great Hall. Ulfr, broad frame draped in a shaggy fur cape, presides over the table. Loki and Thor sit to his left and right; they wear no fur.

Camelot’s men sit together, looking skinny and pitiful in too-big shirts and capes. Merlin sits beside Arthur, who looks about as far from a prince as he’s ever seen. And he’s seen a lot. 

“Merlin.” Arthur’s smile is thin. “I’m glad that you found time to join us.”  
“Glad I managed.” Merlin sits on a cold wooden bench beside Arthur. There is plentiful food—meat and bread, wheels of cheese and many pints of drink. 

“I don’t like this,” Galad informs them, and refuses to eat any of the meat. “Never know what it might be, lads.”  
“Oh, I think it’s alright.” Gwaine has already availed himself to several mugs of ale. “Don’t you, boys?”  
And although Merlin is hesitant, he eats and drinks.

King Ulfr is strapping and tall, with a mane of silvered hair. One of his eyes is, Merlin realizes, missing—covered with a tarnished silver disk. 

Merlin is finishing a pint of ale when Arthur pushes back his chair and stands.   
“I cannot stay here and drink while Sir Keely fares so badly.”  
“I’ll come with you.”  
“No.” Arthur holds Merlin’s shoulder. “Stay and tell them where I’ve gone. Tell them that I will come back.”  
Merlin agrees but reluctantly, and he watches Arthur disappear through the hall’s tall doors. A cool figure slides into the seat beside him.  
“Merlin.” Loki drinks almost delicately from a pint mug. “You are enjoying our feast, I see.”  
“Very much. Thank you.” Merlin pushes away his plate, appetite vanished.  
“I myself have no stomach for Midgardian fare.”  
“Mid...what? Is that this kingdom?”  
“No.” Loki looks suddenly distant. “It’s nothing. I see that your fair prince has taken his leave.”  
“He is attending to Sir Keely.”  
“Sir.” Loki smiles slyly. “And you consider our names strange?”  
“Not strange. Different.”   
“As you have said. I have heard many stories of...knights, from far-off lands. The lore of my childhood.”   
“Did you ever consider it? Becoming a knight? Or...warrior, I suppose.” Merlin takes a swallow of hot mead. He guesses that he should stop talking, but making conversation with their (albeit mysterious and possibly sinister) host seems only right.

He thinks that Arthur would approve. 

“No.” Loki says. “No, I did not.”  
“You’re young, though—twenty-two? Twenty-three?”  
Maybe they measure age differently here.   
Loki gives him a thin smile. “I have not thought on my age for some time, Merlin.”   
And something in the way the prince speaks sends chills up and down Merlin’s spine, and he is very glad when Loki rises and sweeps away. 

There is something wrong with this—with the palace, with Loki. Merlin stares at Thor.   
The elder Odinson drinks heartily at the front of the table, laughing uproariously with his men. He is striking, strong, looks like a true warrior. He is young; they are both young. 

Merlin does not wait for the feast to die down; he senses that it may continue well into the knight. A fair-haired young men, handsome and lanky, strums his lute at the table. Camelot’s men eat and drink uneasily.   
Merlin leaves quickly, sliding into the cool darkness beyond the torch’s light. 

The hallway is long. Shadows creep and flicker across the floors and walls, cast by flickering bracketed torches. He is heading for his room when he sees a familiar figure skirting along, fair hair streaming behind her. 

“Inga!”  
She has changed her clothing, now wears a fur cape, a dress and thick leggings. Her boots are soundless on the flagstones.  
“Merlin.”  
He is struck suddenly by strange inspiration.   
“Inga.” He lopes up beside her. “Inga, do you know of a King Biorn?”  
“There were many.”  
“The...” Merlin sifts through memory. “The Third. King Biorn the Third.”  
“The Bear King.” Inga flicks her braid over her shoulder. “Yes, I know of him. We all do.”  
“Did he rule before King Ulfr?”   
Inga lets out a low laugh. “No, Merlin-of-Camelot, he did not. The Bear King has long passed into legend. He held the throne many hundreds of summers ago—a time before any of those among us now can remember.”   
Ice snatches at Merlin’s chest.   
“There is one.” Or two.   
Inga turns sideways and gives him a strange look. “Does our wine disagree with your spirits, Merlin?”  
He swallows. “Where are Prince Loki’s chambers?”  
Inga turns away quickly. “I do not know.”  
“You must—you have grown up in this palace, have you not? Trained here? Lived here?”  
“I do not think that the prince would appreciate you visiting his rooms unbidden.”  
“Where are they?”  
“And I should know this? Why? Because I am a woman, and he is handsome, and a prince?” Color rises in her cheeks. “I see what you suspect, Merlin, and I think it wise that you keep it entirely to yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin cries as she storms away, disappearing down a long hall. He curses himself mentally; there is so much business unsolved here, so many mysteries sliding together. He returns to his quarters unsatisfied and uneasy.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Thor become fast friends, while Sir Keely reveals a dangerous secret to Merlin. Also, the beginning is kind of saucy (well, it /is/ almost Valentine's Day...) so if you are offended by vague sexual description feel free to skim.

_She comes to him in the night, in a dream. Merlin thinks that they are in the woods; he sees green, and then darkness. In the shapeless way of dreams, he moves and is inside, in her room. She moves against him, slowly. She is naked, he puts his hands against her breasts. She pushes him slowly against the wall, she kisses him and he does not protest. He knows better. He presses his hands up and against her breasts and they are heavy and without wanting to be he is hard. She pushes him down onto the bed. Her dark hair falls over his shoulders. In the dream he feels its softness. She touches him. He allows himself to moan. She slides onto him, moves him into her, they are against each other, he sees moonlight streaming through a window, the world becomes a blur of blue and gray and something is building up, building up and—_  
“Morgana!”

He wakes with a shout, alone in the cold room at Kaldrhùs.  
Shit.

Merlin rises, praying that Arthur has not heard him; he feels filthy and wrong, and has to remind himself that he cannot control his dreams.

He strips off his leggings and douses himself with frigid water from the room’s basin, and instantly regrets it. He redresses, finds himself too alert to sleep again—maybe too scared, worried that he’ll slip into another...dream.

Merlin does not trust Morgana, and he tells himself that he cannot find her beautiful. Besides, he’s certain that every knight in Camelot has thought of her at least once in the night, out training or on campaign, far from the castle walls. It’s not a nice thing to think on, but undeniable. Even men of valor harbor human weakness.

Unsettled, Merlin wanders outside, onto the balcony, takes a narrow flight of stone steps down into the courtyard. He finds himself walking along a broad flagstone terrace, outside. The night is frigid, and he’s glad for the woolen coat across his shoulders. Far over the lonely hills, an animal howls. High and clear, Merlin thinks that it’s a wolf. He does not allow himself to shudder.

“Do you not find it cold?”  
Merlin jumps, flinches involuntarily.  
“Prince Loki!”

“Merlin.”  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—are these your...” He nods towards a narrow doorway. The prince’s quarters?  
“No.” Loki leans against the stone railing. He is dressed, Merlin notices, in tight leather leggings, a green woolen tunic and dark cloak unsuitable for this cold. “I often find that I cannot sleep here.”

“Homesick?”  
A half-smile twists at Loki’s pale face. “Something like that.”  
There is a moment of silence. Merlin wonders if he should speak his mind. He does.  
“Where is home—for you, and for your brother?”  
“Far away.” Loki says. “Do you see those mountains?”  
Merlin looks far to the north. Craggy mountains in the distance. “Yes.”  
“Beyond those mountains. Across much water.”  
“A long way to travel, then. For someone else’s business.”  
“You mean my father’s. It is his business that we come to deal with. Again and again, and he can never seem to spare the time, my father.”

“And you keep coming back?”  
“That is what sons do.” Loki stares suddenly at Merlin. “It is Thor’s business, not mine. He is heir, not I.”

“I see.”  
“Like your own prince. Arthur Pendragon.”  
“Yes.”  
Silence. Loki says, suddenly, without looking at Merlin,  
“Do you dream of her often?”  
“What?” Merlin gasps, choking on a breath of air. “Do I...who?”  
Loki allows another half-smile. “Who is she? A lover, or a friend?”  
“Neither. She’s...a—friend, I suppose. If you have to put it like that.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Loki smirks. It is not a kind smirk. “You don’t love her, do you?”  
“No!”  
“Good. Love is a sentiment better left to swooning girls and foolish boys. A children’s sentiment.”  
“I...it was...we’ve all—just a dream,” Merlin mutters, cheeks heating despite the cold.

“Oh, yes. Dreams do have a certain telling quality, do they not? Think of how many men—how many of your own men—have spent themselves at night, thinking of her body. Her tits, her cu—”

“Don’t,” Merlin snaps, “talk about her like that! She isn’t a—a—she’s not like that.” Face burning, he finishes, “She’s the king’s ward.”

“And do you think that this matters to the men of your kingdom? Do you think that given the chance they wouldn’t do what they’ve dreamed of? What you’ve dreamed of?”

Merlin stares, shocked and angered. He wants to turn and storm away but he cannot.  
There is a moment of tense silence, so hot and taut that Merlin is sure that if he reached out he could feel it.

He wonders if Loki is going to strike him—or worse, cast some ungodly spell on him.  
Instead, the prince steps back.

“My apologies. You are our guest, and a guest of the king. I should not have spoken about that—of the king’s ward, or of any woman.” Loki’s eyes, so sharp and green, scald Merlin’s face. He sighs quietly. “Every man falls to some weakness or another. I know that you are not a man like that—not one that would harbor such unclean thoughts.”

“No,” Merlin says, breathlessly. If any of this should get back to Arthur...  
“I know. I see the way that you look at your prince.”  
“What?” And he chokes again on a breath of cold northern air. “What? The way I...”

“What goes between you and your prince are none of my business.”  
“Arthur and I—I’m his page. His servant.”

“Yes.” Loki says, distantly. “Very loyal.”  
“To King Uthur. To Camelot.”  
Loki stares a moment longer.  
“Arthur and I are like brothers,” Merlin says, fiercely, but as he speaks he knows that the words are a lie. Even if he were to consider Arthur a brother, it would not change the fact that Merlin was a page and an apprentice to a healer, and Arthur was the crown prince and the heir to the throne of Camelot.

“I serve the prince, and I honor his father.”  
“And I believe you,” Loki says. He puts a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “But you know that my father’s kingdom allows all within its borders to love and receive love from whom they like. We are none to judge.” He pauses. “Trust me on that one, Merlin.”

“I think I should go now. It’s cold out here.”  
Loki moves, as if to leave, then seems to reconsider. “Come to my quarters. There is a fire—more so than lights your own hearth, I expect.”  
“My fire went out,” Merlin says dumbly.  
“You can warm yourself in my quarters, if you would like to. I am not offended by refusal, Merlin.”

“No.” Merlin feels the inexplicable urge to prove something to Loki. That he is not offended, not afraid? “I would like that.”  
Loki leads him into the hallway, up a flight of stairs. Another hallway, forbiddingly dim. They pass an open doorway; Merlin peers inside, hears breathy moans.

Thor and a girl, kissing feverishly against a wall. Merlin turns away, shock and embarrassment heating his cheeks and chest.  
He catches Loki’s look of disdain, almost disgust.

“My brother finds the time to romance many women here. Girls, I should say. They are usually little more.”

“How old is he?” Merlin asks, bold, questioning. “Your brother.”

Loki turns sideways in the slanting moonlight. “Old enough to know better.”  
*******

Loki’s own quarters are clean, almost simple. The furnishings are heavy, oaken, carved elaborately, but there are few. There is a fur rug on the floor. A hearth crackling with flames.

Two wooden chairs, heavy, dark wood.  
“Please.” Loki gestures. “Sit.”

Merlin does not move, his mind runs as wild as a strange beast in these strange hills.  
“We walked here from a bay. Arthur’s men and I. It took many days. I was glad when we reached the forest. And then I had a strange dream.”  
“A dream?”  
“Not like—not like that. I dreamed of a silver woman.”

“Oh?” Loki smirks. “It sounds pleasant.”  
“Magic.” Merlin says. He expects Loki to flinch, to respond, but the prince only sits down and stretches his legs towards the fire.  
“Oh?”  
“It was magic. At work in those woods. I don’t trust it.”

“Your dream sounds very nice, Merlin. Although I’m not certain that I would share it in such company. Do you forget that I am royalty?”  
“What?”  
“I’m joking.” Loki lets out a laugh. Then he turns to Merlin, laughter gone. “I know what you are, son of Camelot. And I would not be so free with the accusation of magic, if I were you.”

Merlin swallows, hard. Magic. Sorcery. Fire. Would they burn him?  
“Please.” He finds himself speaking, feeling stupid for begging Loki but he’s not above it, not now. “Please don’t tell anyone. Arthur. Anyone. Please, Loki.”

Loki stares at him, strangely. “Merlin.”

“I know that you use it, too—magic. In the woods. You admitted it, you...I heard you, you said.”

“Merlin.” Loki smirks. “Loki, there is magic in these lands. Here, it is not feared. Our people do not live in fear as yours do. Strange workings are—accepted.”

“But. I.”

“I would not advise using your magic. It would anger some here. But not I. I understand your gift, Merlin.”

And Merlin is breathless with relief.

“Thank you, Prince Loki.”

Loki inclines his head.

“It’s very late. I should go. I—I’m very tired.” Merlin lies. He all but flees Loki’s quarters. The door to Thor’s room is closed. Merlin does not linger but instead returns to his own cold room. He lies on his bed, on his side and stares at the thin wooden door between his quarters and Arthur’s.

*******

“That,” Gwaine mutters. “Was awful.”  
The men of Camelot are staggering into the king’s great hall. Lancelot and Gwaine look sick; even Galad winces at loud noises and grimaces as he walks.  
“Northern mead unkind to you last night?” Merlin asks, trying not to laugh at the look on Lancelot’s face.

“No. It’s nothing, laddie. Nothing compared to Camelot’s mead.” Galad says loudly. Several passing men stare at him. Merlin gets the feeling that some of the knights made laughingstock of themselves the previous night.

They file in but find the table largely empty. A few men are eating bowls of what looks like porridge at one end, but the king’s chair is empty. Merlin sees no sign of Thor or Loki.

Or Arthur.

“Where’s Arthur?” He asks. Lancelot shrugs, stares around.

“Anyone seen Prince Arthur?”

Nobody nods, indicates that yes, they’ve seen their prince. Their leader.

“Well, we’ll do fine without him.” Galad mutters. “Probably took that saucy shield-girl back to his quarters and sorted her out.”

“As a matter of fact, he did no such thing.” A cool voice, high and clear.

Inga appears, wearing her green cloak. Part of her hair is braided up, the rest hanging down her back. She stares coldly at Galad.

“I have not seen your prince since yesterday, in the evening. I’m surprise that you can stand up straight at all, Sir, considering how much of our mead you allowed yourself to drink last night. I find that it generally takes the weaker ones out.”

Silence. Gwaine’s eyes are wide. Lancelot raises his eyebrows, looking as if he’s trying not to laugh.

Galad tries to stare Inga down, but is interrupted by the hall’s doors opening, loudly, and then Arthur comes through with Thor, and they’re both sort of breathless and rugged and wearing their red cloaks and smiling.

“A good hunt!” Thor says, and claps Arthur’s shoulder.  
“Your beasts are strange,” Arthur returns. “But no stranger than Camelot’s.” Then, seeing his men. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

Galad frowns darkly. Merlin watches as Thor and Arthur exchange words, both smiling and looking hardy and manly. Arthur waits for Thor to leave the hall before returning to his men.

“Where have you been, Arthur?” Merlin asks. “Out hunting?”

“You worry like a mother hen, Merlin.” Arthur claps Merlin on the shoulder, hard. Merlin resists the urge to duck away from the prince’s hand. “Thor and I were out hunting.”

Several of the knights exchange unsettled glances. Lancelot inclines his head respectfully.

“My lord, do you not deem it unwise to hunt alone? One of us could have come along, to...oversee...” He trails off somewhat weakly, possibly seeing Arthur’s irked expression.

“I would deem it unwise only to decline the invitation of our hosts.”

But their host was not Thor, Merlin thought grimly. It was Ulfr, who they had not seen since the previous evening. He is going to comment but then Arthur takes his elbow.

“I’m going to my quarters. Merlin, come with me.”

Merlin follows the prince down the hall. “Arthur...”

“Don’t question me around the knights, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is taut and strained. “They can’t start doubting me now.”

“And they won’t,” Merlin says, hollowly. “And they won’t.”  
Arthur looks unconvinced. Merlin’s assumed that they’re returning to their quarters, but at the last moment Arthur hangs a sharp left and leads them into the heart of the palace, where the corridors are dark and winding.

“Where are we going?”  
Arthur will not meet Merlin’s eyes. “I’m going to visit Sir Keely. You can come, if you like.”  
“Of course.” Merlin is grateful to be going someplace with another person, to not wander alone in the palace. He’d never admit it aloud, of course, but he fears being caught alone again with Loki.

*******

Keely lies in the healer’s rooms, a series of dark, low-ceilinged chambers. His face is white and he lies unmoving, arms folded on his chest. Arthur kneels beside the knight’s bed.

“I am sorry, Keely.” He says. “For all that has happened to you.”

Keely lets out a raspy cough. He speaks but the words Merlin cannot make out. Arthur look stricken. They stay for a long time, in silence.

*******

Two days pass. Arthur goes out with Thor often. One evening, from his room, Merlin sees the two men practicing swordwork in the courtyard. Arthur pays little attention to Merlin and the other knights. He tells them of Thor’s hammer, marvels at the strange weapons that these princes have.

Loki seems to have made himself scarce. Merlin spends time in his room, or wandering the palace. He happens upon a distant interior courtyard where a group of young women in leather armor strike at each other with swords.

He recognizes Inga. The next day he returns. They are practicing archery.

Two days, and he’s barely spoken to Arthur. Against his judgment, he follows the prince to Keely’s room.

“You and Thor get along well.”

“He understands a prince’s duties.” Arthur replies as they enter. Merlin feels a flash of hot offense—is his company not good enough now?—but it fades quickly into shock as they see Keely.

The knight sits upright and there is a clean bandage around his chest.

“Sir Keely!” Arthur rushes to his man’s bedside.

“Prince Arthur.” Keely inclines his head. Although his dark hair is down and unkempt, he is clean-shaven, his complexion robust.

“You fare much, much better. I worried for your health, Keely.”

“I am honored by your concern.” Keely says. Merlin thinks, for a moment, that the knight looks almost worried. His face pales when Arthur says,

“You’ve improved so rapidly—miraculous. I’ll have a word of thanks for your healers.”

He goes through a low wooden door, footsteps fading. Keely gestures frantically to Merlin—or best he can, barely moving his torso.

“Come here, Merlin.”

Merlin goes to him. The young knight stares up, stricken.

“Arthur will want to know how I was healed so quickly. They will not tell him the truth, and I will not either.”

“How, then? How did they heal you?”

Keely’s lips part. His eyes are wide, almost frightened.

“Witchcraft, Merlin. It was sorcery.”


	4. Chapter Four

The first words out of Merlin’s mouth are “no”, but he believes Keely. Oh, does he believe Keely.   
  
He stands.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
“Yes?” The reply comes from a long ways off, echoes against stone walls.  
  
“I’m going to go back to my room. I left—uh, something behind. My cloak.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Merlin looks at Keely again, a short scared look, and then he flees.

* * *

  
  
He takes to the hallways, hurrying through a maze of blazing torches and weathered stone until he is outside, can finally breathe right.  
  
Merlin walks, unsettled, through a pretty wood. The afternoon light is cold and thin, but the setting sun slants through trees and he can fully inhale here.  
  
“Out for a walk, Merlin?”  
  
Merlin jumps, hand leaping to the place where his sword would hang—if he were wearing it.   
  
“Loki.” Taking a deep, sharp breath. He can put this off no longer. Merlin steels himself, readies for the blow, the retaliation. “I want to know what the hell you’re up to.”  
  
The prince drifts from the shadow of the wood. He smiles, almost gently. “Come, Merlin. Walk with me.”  
  
“I don’t understand. I’ve been trying to figure it out. To figure you out. And I can’t.”  
  
Fallen leaves crackle underfoot. Fallen leaves, at this time of year. Strange, Merlin thinks. Many of the trees he does not recognize.  
  
“And what have you...figured out in regards to me?”  
  
“You and your brother. You’re strange.” Merlin is not usually hostile; given the chance, he’d rather back out a fight. But put Camelot in danger...he doesn’t think that he can back away from this. “I know that these are strange times, and strange lands. But—when you and Thor were children, you played in the forests under the rule of king Biorn. You told me that.”  
  
“It’s true.”  
  
“I asked Inga. The shieldmaiden. King Biorn ruled centuries ago. No man alive today can remember his rule, she said. But...it’s not possible. It’s not.”  
  
Loki puts his hands in his pockets, seems to reconsider, withdraws them again.   
  
“It was this sort of close-minded thinking that led your men to pillage my villages so many decades ago.”  
  
“You would not have been born!” Merlin cries before he can stop himself. “You’re young—I know it, I know that you are not as old as my king, or yours!”  
  
Loki’s smiles flashes violently bright. “Look, Merlin.”  
  
He gestures to a heap of rocks; river-stones, piled into a crude alter. Leather thongs and silver beads have been draped across some of the rocks.  
  
“What is it?”   
  
“A shrine,” Loki says.   
  
“For...”  
  
“To me.”

* * *

  
  
Merlin says, what, but he knows, he already knows.   
  
“I am,” Loki says, and puts his hands interlocked behind his back. “A god.”  
  
“A god.” Merlin swallows, very hard. “You’re not a god. There are not gods like you. Those are myths.”  
  
Is Loki mad? No. No. Merlin sees the terrible truth.   
  
“God of mischief, trickery. My dear brother would prefer to think otherwise, I think.”  
  
“And Thor is...?”  
  
“The bringer of thunder.”  
  
Merlin swallows. He feels sickly hot with these revelations.  
  
“Your witchcraft. Your healers.”  
  
“You look pale.”  
  
“I think I need to sit down.” But Merlin doesn’t sit down. Instead, he turns on Loki. “I’ve got but one question, Loki—why? Why draw us here, into your—world? Into your magic and your great halls and your shield maidens and—”  
  
“Merlin. Merlin, Merlin. Can you not see?” Loki lets out a low, impatient sigh. “Do you honestly feel out of place here? Among your fellows?”  
  
“I’m not like you.” Merlin snarls. "You and I are _nothing_ alike." ****

"Aren't we, though?"

"No, we're not." 

"We're the dark ones, though. You cannot deny that. My magic, too, is frowned upon by my family. A  _trickster_. The little dark-haired shadows, with his strange abilities. Always overshadowed, always second to the golden prince."

Of course, this stirs something in Merlin and he feels a sort of weird jolt. 

He thinks,  _Arthur_.

Yes. Yes, he sees it now. 

"Tell me, Merlin." Loki slides closer; his feet do not seem to touch the ground. As if he's weightless. "Have you got a family?"

"A mother," Merlin mutters. "I've got a mother. It's...complicated. I haven't seen her in years."

"No family, then."

And Merlin sees the clever glint in Loki's green eyes, and it only stokes the fire in his chest more, and he says,

"That isn't true. Arthur is my family."

"You jest." Loki says, and he begins to walk. "He considers you a  _servant_. Not a friend, and certainly not a brother. Even  _you_ ought to be able to see that much."

"D'you know what?" Merlin wheels, fists clenched tight, fingernails digging into his palms. "You think that you can throw your weight around? Because you're a  _prince_?"

"Because I'm a  _god_ ," Loki smirks, leaning coolly against a poplar. 

"A god. And you—what, corrupt these people? A king should be just and kind, not cruel and...tricky!"

Merlin is painfully aware of how stupid he sounds. Loki snorts under his breath.

"You seem hesitant to believe me."

"I am." 

"Why is that?"

"Because," Merlin says shortly. "Gods don't wander around like this, with...mortals. You may be a magician, a sorcer, but you're no god."

The corners of Loki's lips twist. His smile is cold. 

For the first time, Merlin feels an icy finger of fear skitter down his back; he fights the urge to stumble backwards and flee.

"Son of Camelot," Loki murmurs, soft and dangerous. "You'll believe me soon enough." 

* * *

 

"Arthur!  _Arthur_!"

Merlin sprints after the prince, his kerchief blowing up around his mouth. He pushes the red fabric down as he slows to a jog, then a walk.

"What _is_ it, Merlin?" Arthur turns, his mouth curving into a sort of condenscendingly concerned smile. "You haven't gotten lost, have you?"

"I need to talk to you."

There must be something very readable in Merlin's expression, or maybe Arthur knows him too well. 

"About what? What's wrong?"

"Not here," Merlin hisses as two bearded warriors stroll past, axes looped through their belts and across their backs. He pushes his way into a low, musty chamber. There is a stack of unused benches, but no torches glow in the wall brackets. He draws in a deep, steadying breath. "Arthur, we need to leave. As soon as Keely is fit to walk, we need to gather the men and leave."

"We?" Arthur arches both eyebrows. 

"You.  _You_ need to gather your men. And leave. Soon. Tonight, if we can."

"Merlin, what's gotten into you?" Arthur peers at Merlin's face. His level of concern is nowhere in the realm of what it should be, Merlin thinks. He tries not to panic. 

"It isn't safe here. I don't trust these people."

"And why is that?" Arthur's expression is stony. "My father sent me here to promote peace, brotherhood. Not to  _flee_ because we are unused to their customs."

And Merlin realizes that he will never win, because he will never tell Arthur the truth. 

* * *

He makes himself scarce that night, not going to eat with Arthur and the others in the king's hall. No one seems to notice his abscence, and so Merlin wanders around the palace grounds. He finds himself in the stables, breathing in the familiar odor of straw: musty and heavy. Maybe it reminds him of Camelot, or of another time, before he met Arthur. Before he really knew himself. 

The king's horses are tall and beautiful, and when Merlin walks down the aisle they bend their strong necks over the doors of their stalls. Merlin wonders if they are stallions, their maleness uncut, allowed to prove their prowess on the battlefield. He's always ridden mares at Camelot, or else gelded plowhorses; gentle animals who have never seen war. 

"Hello, Merlin."

He jumps at the voice, half-expecting it to be Loki.

It's Inga. She carries a bridle on her arm. 

"Oh. Hello, Inga."

She smiles thinly. "I expected you to take your meal in the king's hall. Few would pass up that honor."

"Well. I wasn't hungry, I..."

"I see." Her eyes rake over his face. "Do you find our customs strange?"

"Why would you say that?"

"No reason." She shrugs lightly. "I notice you alone quite often."

"Maybe I like being alone."

"Hm." She disappears into a sort of antechamber and returns without the bridle. "You know, I was surprised to hear of your arrival. Camelot's men, returned to our land. We all were. Some of the men sharpened their axes the night that you lot came in."

"Did they?" He's hardly shocked.

"Yes." She makes a distant, allowing noise, reaches out to stroke the musceled neck of a dark gray horse. "After what had happened before. When your king brought his own men. When they left, we thought we had seen the last of them. We gathered around our burning houses, around the rubble of our forts. They killed many men, and took many women."

"Took them? Back to Camelot?"

She stares at him icily. "They did not take them. They  _took_ them. Their husbands saw them as tainted, after that. Their children knew, too. Children always know. I should know. My mother was one of those children. Old enough to see my grandmother's pain, to understand. My grandfather, he wasn't the same. He'd been wounded. It changed all of them."

"I'm sorry," Merlin says, hating that this is now his burden to bear.

"No, you're not." Inga picks up a wooden pail and shifts it across the floor. "I understand. I did not apologize for the raids carried out by my grandfather, by my father. I did not understand then."

"I..."

"All warriors fall to bloodlust sooner or later." She pauses, seems to consider. "And I speak as a warrior."

They share a dim silence until Merlin says,

"What do you know about Loki and Thor?"

"Oh. Thor is heir to the throne of his father's kingdom. He's very revered, but it would only frighten you—"

"I know." Merlin says. "About...about them. About the...gods."

"The gods." She raises only one eyebrow. "I'm surprised that you haven't turned and run."

"Almost." Merlin refuses to let his voice shake.

"Thor brings thunder. He's strong and brave. He'll make a good king someday."

"And Loki?"

She turns away. He sees her smile, twisted like a grimace.

"Loki is the youngest. The trickster."

"And?"

"Oh, he's funny."

"Funny. That's not the impression that I got."

"Maybe our ways do frighten you, then. Or would. I've had the...honor...of meeting the Trickster himself more than once."

Something in her eyes suggests that maybe they had done more than sit beside each other in the king's hall. Even Merlin can see that much.

"Inga," he says, and there is no humor in his voice. "Inga, I have to ask you something."

She looks up and says, "what?", but at that moment a group of stableboys come in, joking around and nudging each other's shoulders, and they greet Inga with smiles and waves, and when they begin to talk to each other Merlin backs away and flees silently into the night.

* * *

He drifts around, feeling lost and hunted. Winding hallways, largely unfamiliar, lead him to a room that he's seen before.

"Keely." He goes through the doorway. The knight is sitting upright in bed, staring into middle distance. "Keely. How are you?"

"Fine." Keely blinks. "Just fine."

"I actually need to ask you something," Merlin says, going to Keely's bedside and kneeling there awkwardly. He isn't really sure how to phrase the question right. "Er, about...well, about your being healed."

"My what?"

"Your recovery, Keely. About what you told me." Merlin lowers his voice to a whisper. "About them using sorcery, and all."

He does  _not_ expect the knight's face to remain void of recognition. 

"About the sorcery," he repeats. "Keely, you told me that they healed you with magic."

"I did?" Keely blinks. "How foolish. I must have been dreaming. Or maybe you were, Merlin. To imagine something like that..."

"Keely..." Merlin feels the desperation closing in.

"Merlin. Merlin. Merlin." Keely's lips move slowly, and his eyes are glassy, like he's in some kind of weird trance. "Merlin, would you like to heart a story, Merlin?"

" _What_?"

"There was once a very nosy boy who lived in a castle. He wasn't the prince, though. He  _served_ the good prince, and he was unnoticed, living in the good, fair prince's shadow. But he was a very nosy boy, and he began to  _wonder_ , and to—"

"Keely!" Merlin stumbles backwards, heartbeat high and fast in his throat. "Stop!"

"And nosy boys always get their punishment, in the end. Would you like to hear the rest of the story, Merlin? Would you, Merlin?"

"Stop it! Stop!" Merlin is on his feet, staggering towards the door, fumbling his way out and then he's in the hallway and he's colliding with a lanky figure and he recognizes Loki, sees the flash of the brilliant sharp cold white smile and he's pushing Loki away, numbly, shouting out but there isn't anyone to hear, and then he's sprinting through dark hallways to his own room, and he's slamming the door and locking it and sliding down with the wood against his back and breathing, breathing, breathing. 

 

 


End file.
